


Death Is A Friend Drabble: Christmas in Woodbury

by handful_ofdust



Series: Death Is A Friend (Of Ours) [4]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 19:28:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5387579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handful_ofdust/pseuds/handful_ofdust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Like it says on the tin. Takes place during the first year of "Death To Everyone."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death Is A Friend Drabble: Christmas in Woodbury

Year One, infrastructure's not completely in place yet, but the Governor decides it's important to celebrate anyhow, and Rick Grimes mainly agrees. Nothing elaborate, though: there's a get-together in the square, a symbolic bonfire, some carolling. Daddy Carter reads the Gospel, people hold hands and sway, Philip keeps his smile on tight almost all night. Afterwards, he and Rick stand on what'll become the South Gate drinking this awful shit Milton calls home-made eggnog, diluted 'til it's maybe half whiskey; when he's drunk enough Philip keeps trying to shoot bogeys without a golf club, only stopping once Rick has to save him from overreaching so far he almost falls off.

By Year Two, it's considerably more of a production. There's a committee, decorations; somebody's decided it'd be a good idea to dress one particular tree up like it's an evergreen (which it isn't) and people stand under it exchanging presents, about sixty percent scavenged luxuries to forty percent self-generated/metaphorical (poems, drawings, jewelry). Rowan gives Rick a t-shirt with "Woodbury! We're the Best!" stencilled on it in green fabric paint, and he actually wears it a couple of times, before getting it so "accidentally" soaked in walker residue he has to burn it. Philip gives him a scope for his rifle, a gift which eventually becomes ironic when Rick lends the weapon in question to Maggie Greene during the Battle of Woodbury, and never gets it back.

Year Three is, of course, when all the shit goes down, so Christmas gets thrown off, to say the least. When he looks back, Rick sometimes wonders what it would've been like, had Philip continued on his downward spiral: gladiators fighting zombies dressed as Santa, while Christmas music played full blast? The Governor raiding Milton's lab for raw material and spiking still-animate heads on treetops like stars, watching them mouth "along" with the words while pecans (no chestnuts available) roasted on an open fire? But thankfully, it doesn't come to that. The night itself is unseasonably cold—snow even falls—and everyone stays indoors, huddled for warmth.

On Christmas morning, there's a sober little "service" and hymns are sung, seeping into Rick's dreams. He wakes late, alone, then crosses over to the survey office with a thermos full of coffee while "Silent Night" echoes behind him, watching his own breath dissipate on the changing wind. When he gets there, the place is empty still except for Philip, who's reading three reports at once and drumming on the desktop like he's listening to jazz inside his head, way he always does when he doesn't want to let on that he's nervous.

"So what's the word?" Rick asks, sitting down. And: "Oh, joy to the world, angels we have heard on high, all that," Philip replies, not looking up, "plus a big herd comin' at us from the east, due to hit maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day, so we better batten down the hatches."

“Zombies, the gift that keeps on givin,'” Rick suggests, sitting down.

“Uh huh. Speaking of which, you get me anything?”

“Just this.” Rick pours him a slug, passes it over, then adds: “'Sides which, I already gave you what YOU want, supposedly. Didn't I?”

“To a point, yes. Must admit, I'd like it if things became less...utilitarian, eventually, but I understand; you've lost things too. Need time to process, 'fore you move on.”

Rick snorts. “Yeah, that's big of you...but maybe I never will, ever think about that? And maybe you'll just have to learn to cope, 'cause just 'cause people in hell want slurpees, don't mean they get 'em.”

“Between Woodbury and hell, though, I'd still choose Woodbury, every time. Most 'specially with you here.”

Given he hasn't seen full-on hell as yet, Rick's inclined to assume he would too, even if he's not quite so hungry for Philip's company as Philip claims to be for his, but the very thought of saying so makes him tired. Which is why he just inclines his head instead—sidelong not down, less a nod than a tic; anything to avoid being seen to agree. But the Governor parses the distinction pretty quick and laughs at it, a creepy sort of affection in every rumbling note of his chuckle: _oh, Richard._

“Can't get the one so I'll just have to be satisfied with the other, that about it?” he asks. “Hmmm, well. Doesn't sound much like me.”

(And: _No,_ Rick thinks, somewhat sadly. _No, it damn well doesn't._ )


End file.
